


Ruin and Rebuilding

by CandyQueenAO3



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, But No More So Than Your Average Sugar Daddy or Gold Digger Story, Deception, Emotional Manipulation, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandyQueenAO3/pseuds/CandyQueenAO3
Summary: Aziraphale Fell (if his parents weren't already dead, he'd strangle them himself for giving him that name) is a 26-year-old self-made millionaire.  He earned his fortune by locating rare books, restoring them, and re-selling them for a substantial profit.  Despite this, he lives humbly and modestly.  As a consequence of his fortune, however, he's never managed to make a relationship work.  Everyone who's ever expressed interest in him has only been after his money, so he's given up on finding love (though never stopped secretly hoping for it).One day, he meets Anthony Crowley, a man who doesn't appear to know who Aziraphale is and seems to have no interest in his wealth or even any knowledge of it. Aziraphale intends to keep Crowley in the dark about it as, for the first time, he allows himself to dream of a future filled with romance.But is Crowley ALL he appears to be...?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 140





	1. The Garden of Eatin'

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to start writing this out of PURE SPITE lol

At 26 years old, Aziraphale Fell (if both his parents weren’t already dead, he’d have strangled them himself for giving him such a moniker) was one of the youngest self-made millionaires in history. 

What had started out as a simple hobby (tracking down rare books, restoring them, then reselling them at a profit) quickly proved to be a lucrative source of income for him. He became known in literary, hobbyist, and museum circles as a man who could find any book anywhere, no matter how obscure the text. He was also known to be a shrewd businessman, as well as an accounting genius (he’d been investigated by HMRC no less than three separate times due to the sheer  _ perfection  _ of his taxes). 

Aziraphale had enough money to buy himself a luxury villa and retire at 30 to live out the rest of his life in pure hedonism.

That life, however, was not for him.

Instead, he spent a sliver of his fortune on purchasing an empty store with a flat above it on a street corner in Soho as a sort of private museum-slash-workshop and lived modestly (though he was known to enjoy patronizing quite a few of the higher-end restaurants in the city).

Unfortunately, however, wealth came with its own host of problems…

He had given up on finding a romantic partner.

Sure, there were plenty of  _ offers,  _ but none of them were  _ genuine.  _ Every man, woman, or being of unspecified gender that threw themselves at him were only after one thing: his money. Perhaps, because of his cherubic features and pleasant demeanour, they thought he’d be an easy mark or, at the very least, a good sugar-daddy. They never expected him to be able to see through their disingenuous attempts at getting closer to him, and were always quickly sent packing.

At first, it had wounded Aziraphale deeply. As time went on, however, it just became another facet of his life, like being blonde, an orphan, or pansexual. He stopped dwelling on it, and decided to throw himself fully into other pursuits, such as his hobbies and his budding friendship with his PA, Newton Pulsifer.

All in all, Aziraphale’s life could have been  _ far  _ worse, and he was infinitely grateful for what he  _ did  _ have.

Although, on some nights when he couldn’t sleep, he’d roll over on his mattress and stare at the empty space beside him, dreaming of someone there to warm that spot with love and light.

***~*~*~*~***

“Newt, dear, I’m heading to that cafe past the post office!” Aziraphale called pleasantly towards the back of his shop as he slipped on his shoes by the front door.

“‘The Garden of Eatin’?” his assistant responded back from somewhere between the shelves.

“The very same! They just added this new dark chocolate frappé that I am simply  _ dying  _ to get my hands on! Is there anything you would like?”

“Uhh… a bagel. No! Two bagels!”

“Alright. You have my number, text me if a customer comes in!”

“Can do, boss!”

Aziraphale stepped out onto the bustling streets of Soho, closing the door of his shop behind him with a merry jingle of the bell above the frame. It was but a short walk down the span of a few city blocks to the cafe and the afternoon sun was pleasant.

Within 20 minutes, he’d placed his order, received said order, and was all set to return to work.

Unfortunately, however, right as he turned around at the till to walk away, he collided with something  _ firm,  _ spilling his frappé all over his own lovely blue sweater vest. 

“Oh dear! I’m terribly sorry!” he exclaimed at the same time the man he ran into yelped, “Shit! Sorry about that, mate! You alright?”

Before Aziraphale could orient himself, the strange man was pressing a fistful of napkins against his chest to try and soak up some of the spill before it set in.

“Fuck, this might still stain after all. Damnit!” 

Aziraphale gently pushed the man’s hand away. “It’s alright, my dear, I can just- er… get another.”

The other man took a step back and Aziraphale was able to get a good look at him. The man was taller than him by a few inches, with short, auburn hair that stood up in a bit of a mess. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, and he was dressed in a simple, black “Queen” tank top and cargo shorts. It looked like he’d been out for a jog and stopped into the cafe for a cool drink.

The man ran a hand through his hair, somehow managing to mess it up even more. He embarrassedly slipped off his shades to fiddle with the hinge, revealing a pair of amber eyes. “Still, I’m sorry for not looking where I was going. Let me buy you a new frappé mister…?”

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale Fell,”

The blonde waited for the spark of recognition in the stranger’s eyes, for the slightly devious upturned grin. Instead, the man just smiled shyly and offered him his hand.

“Anthony. But you can call me by my last name, Crowley. Pleasure to meet you,”

Aziraphale took the hand in numb fingers and blurted out, “Do you know who I am?”

Crowley’s brows creased together at the middle in confusion.

“Uh… am I supposed to? You an undercover rockstar or something?” he chuckled.

“N-no! I just… um… I work around here and wonder if you’d seen me around,” Aziraphale replied, fumbling over the lie.

Crowley seemed to buy it, and shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t say I have. I actually live down in Mayfair,” he gestured to the till. “Come on, then. Let me buy you that drink.”

Aziraphale stepped up beside him and placed his order. The cashier informed Crowley of the total, and the redhead pulled out his wallet. Aziraphale tensed. Any moment now, Crowley would flash him an embarrassed smile, mumble something about, “Oh. I forgot my card at home. Would you be so kind…?”, and then look to him with a simpering pout and fluttering eyelashes. It had happened enough times for Aziraphale to be able to spot it coming  _ yards  _ away.

However, instead of  _ any  _ of those things, Crowley produced a fistful of notes and handed them off to the cashier who rang up the total and passed him back his change. The redhead tucked the coins and wallet back into his pocket and leaned against the counter while he waited for the order to be ready.

Aziraphale could only stare, stunned, as Crowley asked, “So, you said you work here in Soho? What do you do for a living?”

Aziraphale scrambled to answer, convinced that  _ this  _ was the moment where the other man would realize who and what he was.

“I find and restore old books before turning them around for a profit,” he said. “I own that old shop on the corner, just down the street. I make a… comfortable living from it.”

A wide smile broke out over Crowley’s face. “Nice! I’m a freelancer, myself. I just do whatever jobs come to me.”

Before Aziraphale could inquire further, the cashier plonked his order on the counter between them. He moved to take it, but Crowley snatched it up quicker, along with a marker from the cup of pens next to the till. He scribbled something on the side of the cup, then passed it back to Aziraphale. “I’ve actually gotta get back to it, but thanks for letting me buy you a drink to replace the one I ruined. Come see me again and I’ll replace that vest too,” the redhead said with a wink.

He pushed off the counter and sauntered out the door with a confident swagger of hips. Aziraphale unabashedly watched him go, then glanced down at his drink.

A series of numbers  _ (a phone number!)  _ was written on the plastic as well as a cheeky, “Call me, angel.” and a winking cartoon demon-face.

Aziraphale sighed happily at the fluttering sensation in his chest.

***~*~*~*~***

Crowley swaggered out of “The Garden of Eatin’”, hands in his pockets and whistling “Another One Bites the Dust” under his breath. When he was out of sight of the cafe, he whipped his phone out and called one of the only numbers on it he had. It rang for a bit, before a disgruntled voice answered with a barked, “Didya make contact, yet?”

Crowley smiled, though this time it looked a  _ lot  _ less friendly than it did only minutes before. “Yeah, I talked to the dumb bloke. I gotta hand it to him, Bea, he’s cuter in person than the pictures make him look.” 

_ “Don’t  _ fuck this up now by thinking with your dick instead of your brain,” the person on the other line, Bea, snapped.

“Oi! I’ve been doing this for  _ years  _ now. I think I know what I’m doing,” Crowley scoffed.

“Whatever,” Bea grumbled. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

Crowley glanced over his shoulder back in the direction he had come from. He didn’t see any tuft of blonde curls over the crowd of people.

“Gimme a year,” he said with a shark-like grin. “I’ll have him in a year.”


	2. Dinner With Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley have their first date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT WARNING! Starts immediately after the picture ends and continues until the end of the chapter.

At the sound of the shop bell, Newt glanced up from where he’d been taking inventory. Aziraphale stood there in the doorway, with a bag of bagels, a frappé, a dark stain down the front of his sweater vest, and a faraway look in his eyes.

“B-boss? Are you alright?” Newt asked, clearly worried.

Aziraphale blinked like he was coming out of a trance and shook his head.

“Yes. I’m fine, my dear,” he replied. He crossed the room and passed the bag of bagels to his employee, who accepted them gratefully. “I just happened to run into the most _remarkable_ individual this afternoon.”

Newt fished out an asiago-topped bagel and gestured at Aziraphale’s front with it. “Are they responsible for… whatever that mess is?”

“Of a sort. I wasn’t looking where I was going, so I’m just as much at fault,” the blonde said, thumbing at the hem of his shirt.

Newt hummed thoughtfully and took a bite of his snack. Then, his eyes alighted on the phone number on Aziraphale’s cup and he nearly spat it back out. “Oh! You got someone’s number!”

Aziraphale gave him a small, yet triumphant smile. “I _did!_ It belongs to the very same fellow who ran into me!”

Newt’s excited smile quickly melted into something a bit more apprehensive, but no less pleased.

“And he’s not just… you know?” He waved in an all-encompassing motion around his own head.

Aziraphale giggled like a teenaged schoolgirl.

“That’s the _best part!”_ he answered with a giddy grin. “He had _no idea_ who I was! He offered to pay for my drink after spilling the first and _actually went through with it!”_

 _This_ time Newt _did_ choke on his next bite and his boss had to whack him on the back to coax him to breathe again.

 _“Bloody Hell_ that’s a rarity!” the bespectacled man gasped, rubbing a circle across his own chest. “This must be exciting for you!”

Aziraphale nodded eagerly, but continued fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “I’m _very_ excited, it’s just… well… If things end up working out, I couldn’t possibly keep lying to him about my income level. It wouldn’t be _right!_ And… and what if I _do_ tell him and _then_ he starts trying to take advantage? God forbid, what if we get _married_ and-”

“Whoa whoa whoa! You’re getting ahead of yourself, boss. He just left you his number, not a proposal,” Newt said.

“You’re right,” Aziraphale sighed. “I should just take it day-by-day and see how it goes.”

 _“Exactly!_ Besides, he might not even be your type. Maybe he’s a Tory,” his friend pointed out.

The two of them instantly burst into guffaws. 

“Y-you’re right, my dear,” the blonde chortled. “I’ll call him later tonight and see about setting up a date. Somewhere not too fancy, preferably with sushi.”

Newt leaned back against a shelf. “Forget Tories, if he doesn’t like sushi then _that’s_ how you know he’s the wrong one,” he chuckled.

***~*~*~*~***

Crowley anxiously paced his stark, minimalist flat. It had been several hours since he slipped Aziraphale his phone number and the rich bastard had yet to call him. It wasn’t for lack of _interest,_ that much Crowley knew. When he’d paid for the frappé, Aziraphale looked about ready to drop to his knees and blow him right then and there.

Crowley plonked down onto his couch[1] and leaned his head on his fist.

“Not used to other people paying for you, eh?” he deduced, speaking aloud as if his Mark could somehow hear him.

Three days.

Crowley was going to give him three days to call.

If Aziraphale didn’t, then Crowley (who had been following him for some time - stalking was such an ugly word) would have to arrange another “accidental” meeting. Perhaps he could visit where Aziraphale worked and claim to be looking for something…

His phone’s default tone blared in the silence of the flat and he scrambled to answer, almost dropping it in the process. “Anthony J. Crowley speaking, how can I help you?” he said, hoping it didn’t sound like he’d been waiting for it to ring. [2]

“Ah, er, what’s the ‘J’ stand for?”

A smirk spread across Crowley’s face like blood on a marble floor.

“He-ey! It’s the angel from the cafe!” he said, getting to his feet.

“How can you tell?” asked the “angel”, baffled.

“You have a _very_ distinctive voice,” Crowley crossed the room to lounge against his kitchen counter, a subconscious effort at appearing more tempting. “So, what can I help you with?”

Aziraphale gave a nervous chuckle. “Um… at the risk of sounding too forward… would happen to be free tomorrow evening for dinner? There’s a delightful little sushi place near where I work that I just _adore_ going to. They have plenty of vegetarian options if that’s a dietary restriction for you!”

“Aziraphale, I would be _delighted_ to go out with you tomorrow,” Crowley said magnanimously. “What time should I pick you up?”

“Oh you don’t have to bother. It’s just a short walk from where I work and live. I shan't have you going out of your way for me,” Aziraphale objected.

“Alright, then. Text me the time and address and I’ll meet you there,”

***~*~*~*~***

**The Next Evening**

Crowley pulled up outside of the restaurant, stepped out of his car (a beat up old PT Cruiser - if all went well with his new Mark, he’d finally be able to afford that vintage Bentley he’d been eyeing!), and examined himself in one of the side mirrors. To tempt a Mark, you needed to look the part, and Crowley thought he looked _very much_ “the part”.

His jeans were _just_ tight enough to be decent, but not so to leave too much to the imagination. His black dress-shirt was equally as form-fitting, though it could stand to be a _bit_ more provocative. He undid the top two buttons, allowing the shirt to fall open _just_ a smidge; enough to give a tantalizing glimpse of his chest hair. After another moment of consideration, he rolled up the sleeves to his elbow.

_Perfect!_

It was now showtime.

He strode confidently up to the doors and opened them.

The interior of the restaurant was lit with a soft, reddish glow from paper lamps dangling from the ceiling. Booths lined each wall, with more traditional square-shaped tables clustered in the middle. It was surprisingly empty for this time of night, with only a handful of people scattered about. From one of the booths, Aziraphale waved excitedly.

“Crowley! You made it!” he exclaimed. 

Crowley noticed how his eyes raked hungrily over his form and the conman did a mental fist-pump. He slid into the seat across from Aziraphale and picked up his menu.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the _world,_ angel,” he purred. He opened his menu and perused the dishes on offer, not really paying attention. “You seem to have been here before. What do _you_ recommend?”

Aziraphale answered without missing a beat. “The tamagoyaki nigiri here is so fluffy that you simply _must_ try it!”

“Ah…”

Crowley’s eyes frantically scanned the menu looking for the name of _whatever the fuck_ his Mark had suggested. He found it, and his eyes alighted on a picture of a little tuft of rice with a puffy bit of egg atop it and he relaxed considerably. Eggs were one of his favorite foods.

_At least the guy’s got good taste…_

While Aziraphale debated whether or not he wanted the kappa Maki or the inarizushi, Crowley took the time to observe him.

The man was dressed rather modestly, if handsomely, in plain brown slacks with a white dress-shirt and slightly _darker brown_ (ooh how daring) waistcoat over it. Once again Crowley found himself acknowledging that, yes, Aziraphale was better-looking in person than in the photographs on his company website or in the news articles about him. Then Crowley noticed that he was being asked something by his dining companion and he jerked back to reality.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” he asked, putting on a faux embarrassed smile. “I was just… you’re quite captivating in that outfit.”

Aziraphale may have blushed (it was hard to tell under the already red ambiance) and he patted his waistcoat appreciatively.

“I was asking if you wanted to order any sake for the table,”

“That sounds _fantastic,”_ Crowley declared, smacking his hand down on the tabletop for emphasis.

Soon after, the waitress appeared to take their orders and the two of them shared their drink while they waited, slipping easily into conversation.

“So tell me… if you could have dinner with _anybody who's ever lived_ \- alive or dead - who would it be?” Aziraphale asked pleasantly.

“You,” Crowley answered without a moment’s hesitation.

Aziraphale _definitely_ blushed that time and he reached across the table to playfully smack his date on the arm.

“Be serious, you dreadful flirt!” he chided with no real heat.

“I _am_ being serious,” Crowley laughed, spreading his arms wide as if in supplication. “I’ve got the loveliest man in history right here at my table, therefore making _me_ the _luckiest_ bastard in history. Who could even compare to you, angel?”

“Well… now my answer is going to sound silly…” Aziraphale mumbled with a timid smile.

Crowley leaned forward and propped his chin on his hand. “Do tell.”

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh, but it wasn’t a happy one. It was bitter and wistful. Crowley found he wanted to know the reason behind it, despite himself.

“I would want to have dinner with my parents just one more time,” the blonde said softly, clasping his hands together on the tabletop to stare down at them.

Crowley knew that both of his Mark’s parents had passed away quite suddenly years before, but the intel he’d gathered hadn’t told him much beyond the fact that it was some sort of tragic accident. He reached over and gently covered Aziraphale’s clenched hands with one of his own, rubbing them slowly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Crowley asked, surprising himself with the fact that he was _genuinely_ offering a shoulder to cry on.

“I’m afraid that’s not quite ‘first date’ conversation material,” Aziraphale chuckled wetly.

“You using the word ‘first’ implies that there will be others,” the redhead pointed out, adding a tinge of hope to color his words.

Aziraphale gave him a timid, but happy, smile. “I think that would be quite lovely.”

Their moment was interrupted by the return of the waitress. She placed their orders in front of them and Aziraphale thanked her in _shockingly_ fluent Japanese (At least, Crowley _thought_ it was accurate. The only other language he spoke besides English was French). 

Crowley tried to copy how he saw Aziraphale using chopsticks, but it ended up being _a lot_ more complicated than he gave it credit for. Eventually, he gave up in favor of simply stabbing his nigiri with a single chopstick and eating it like a kabob. Aziraphale watched him do so and hid a snort of laughter behind his hand.

Crowley cracked a good-natured, self-deprecating joke about his own lack of class, but inwardly he was panicking.

He _needed_ this first date to go well or all his future schemes would be for naught! Aziraphale seemed to be a classy, elegant man and no doubt expected the same from his romantic partners. Before Crowley could work himself up into a proper _fit,_ however, his date speared his own food on a single chopstick and lifted it to his lips with a cheeky glint in blue eyes.

Crowley felt his shoulders slump in relief.

They immediately stiffened again, however, when Aziraphale bit into his inarizushi with a moan that bordered on pornographic. Crowley clutched his chopstick so tightly in sudden, desperate arousal that it snapped in his hand and his tamagoyaki splattered to the tabletop.

“Goodness, my dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, reaching out a hand to him.

Crowley noticed the little bit of rice clinging to the corner of the blonde’s mouth and he was immediately assaulted with mental images of himself leaning across the table to lick it away.

“I- I’m fine. Just, uh… these are more fragile than they look,” he said, a little too quickly to uphold his “suave persona”.

Aziraphale, thankfully, appeared to believe him, and sat back in his seat. He filled his choko with another shot of sake and sipped at it. A tiny dribble ran down his chin and his pink tongue darted out to lick it away.

Crowley snapped his second chopstick.

***~*~*~*~***

Crowley stood outside the restaurant with Aziraphale, thankful that the night was able to conceal the near-fluorescent redness of his face.

_For Somebody’s sake how does a person manage to make_ **_sushi-eating_ ** _erotic?!_

“I had a wonderful time tonight, Crowley. It was very generous of you to cover my half of the bill,” Aziraphale said sweetly, rocking back on his heels and fixing his date with a beaming smile. “I _insist_ I get the next one.”

“Y-yeah. ‘S no problem, angel. I’m glad you enjoyed our date,” the redhead replied.

“Would you mind terribly if I asked if you would like to come visit me at work tomorrow?” Aziraphale blurted quite suddenly.

“Yeah! I mean no! I mean... seeing you again tomorrow would be perfect,” Then, Crowley decided he needed to up the charm factor a bit. He took one of Aziraphale’s hands in his and pressed a tender kiss to the back of it, making sure to lift his honey-gold eyes to his date’s while shooting him another of his trademarked winks. “Thank you for the lovely evening, _mon ange.”_

Aziraphale didn’t need to be fluent in French to understand the last two words, and Crowley thought he blushed so prettily.

***~*~*~*~***

The door to Crowley’s flat clicked shut behind him. He leaned against it for a moment and exhaled slowly. 

The date had been an arousing - _Rousing! Just regular rousing!_ \- success, so _why_ did he feel so wound up?!

He let his head thunk back against the door.

He knew why, and it had _everything_ to do with those sultry moans his Mark _(Aziraphale,_ he mentally corrected himself) had made throughout dinner. Crowley hadn’t even _known_ he’d had that kink until now! The tent in his jeans, however, was proof-positive that he did.

Before he could “take care of the matter at hand”, however, he had to update Bea on the progress of the date before they called to screech at him for not doing so.

Crowley dropped into his bed, still fully-clothed, and stared up at the ceiling. He couldn’t stop himself from replaying the sounds Aziraphale had made that night. Crowley wondered if there were other things that could make Aziraphale make those little wordless gasps…

Crowley thought back to the way the blonde’s lips had closed around his chopstick and then _that_ thought morphed into what those lips might look like wrapped around his cock. His hands drifted down to undo the fly of his jeans and he pictured himself fisting a hand into those snow-white curls and using his handhold to take control and fuck Aziraphale’s mouth with abandon.

By this point Crowley thought he’d _die_ if he didn’t take himself in hand.

He did so, already leaking pre-come from the tip. He quickly built a rhythm that perfectly matched the sordid fantasy in his head. He slowed down, however, once he realized that his little session was going to be over pretty quickly at his current speed.

He wanted to _savor it._

Crowley slowed his hand’s motion to something more steady and careful, wanting to draw out his pleasure for as long as he could. Hit bit down on his lower lip, imagining that it was Aziraphale delivering a particularly vicious kiss.

What _would_ it be like to kiss him?

Would it be soft, with warm pillowy lips that you just couldn’t get enough of?

Would it be bruising, harsh, with a hint of teeth to keep things _interesting?_

Crowley tightened the hand on his cock, picking up his speed a little. He groaned and moved his free hand to harshly twist on his left nipple. He imagined a wet tongue lavering over it, sucking it into a warm, sushi-loving mouth. His face began heating up and, in the midst of everything, he found himself wondering what Aziraphale preferred to do in the bedroom.

Was the other man a bottom? A top? Did he prefer to lay back on the bed and be worshipped, or did he enjoy taking charge? Crowley could work with any of those, frankly. Being a conman, one had to learn to be flexible, and he considered himself to be _very_ flexible - both sexually _and_ physically.

Crowley pictured Aziraphale’s face in the throes of a climax. He imagined the pupils of those tealish eyes blown wide, darkened with lust. He fantasized about chubby cheeks flushed an adorable pink with petal-soft lips open in a panting gasp. Maybe there’d be a little peek of tongue, like Aziraphale was just _desperate_ to swallow Crowley down to the root.

The redhead was helpless to do anything else but frantically tug on himself some more as he threw his head back against his pillow with a moan. _Fuck,_ he hoped Aziraphale liked to be bitten…

Then everything in Crowley’s world seemed to hang in liminal space for a moment. It all narrowed down to the slide of his own thin hand on his cock and the white-hot pleasure it brought with it.

He came in spurts across his palm, failing to catch some of it and the rest painting the bottom half of his shirt as he gasped.

He stayed there for a long moment, breathing heavily. Once he was able to, Crowley lifted his head a little to glare at the rapidly-cooling stain on his shirt. Despite most likely having to write the garment off as a lost cause, he couldn’t help but feel pleased.

He was physically attracted to Aziraphale, that much was obvious.

Therefore, his task to seduce the man had just become a _lot_ more fun.

***~*~*~*~***

1More designed for aesthetic than for comfort.[return to text]

2Which he had, but nobody needed to know.[return to text]


	3. Overslept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley overlseeps for his next visit with Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note (Who is a Trained Medical Professional): Symptoms of Mouthwash Poisoning include abdominal pain, coma, dizziness, drowsiness, low body temperature, low blood pressure, low blood sugar, rapid heart rate, slurred speech, uncoordinated movement, unconsciousness, and unresponsive reflexes. If you suspect you or someone else are experiencing Mouthwash Poisoning, dial your local emergency line or contact Poison Control. DO NOT induce vomiting unless suggested to by a medical professional.

Crowley snorted awake the next day feeling like he’d just come out of a wank-induced coma (curse your insight, Bea). He groped blindly for his phone at his bedside and held it up to his face. When he saw that he had slept to nearly  _ noon,  _ he jolted upright with a shriek. 

He was supposed to have met Aziraphale at his bookshop  _ three hours ago! _

“Fuckfuckfuckshitcockfuckshitfuckfuck…”

Crowley flung himself out of bed and threw open his sliding closet doors hard enough to nearly knock them from their tracks.

“FuckarsetwatcuntbitchfuckfuckFUCK...”

He rifled through his clothes like a man possessed. He still needed to brush his teeth, comb his hair, find a suitable outfit, put on some nice cologne… but he was  _ so late! _

As he ripped off his pajamas and threw on a simple pair of black shorts with a tank top, he mentally planned out his next few steps. 

_ Alright, I am  _ **_super_ ** _ late. That kind of makes seducing him a little harder…  _ **_fuck!_ **

Crowley darted into his bathroom and, not bothering to waste time brushing his teeth, chugged a few swallows of mouthwash (It was basically just like alcohol, right?). He looked at his messy, flyaway hair and raked his hands through it. Thankfully the bed-head look never went out of style!

After that, he snatched his keys off the kitchen counter and made a beeline for his car.

If Crowley’s plan for getting his hands on Aziraphale’s money had  _ any hope  _ of succeeding, he needed to get to the shop  _ immediately;  _ preferably with a suitable apology present in hand. If he needed to grovel a little, so be it!

As his foot slammed on the acceleration of his car, and he puttered out of his parking spot, Crowley tried to keep an eye out for any shops or bakeries on the way.

***~*~*~*~***

Half an hour later Crowley peeled into the space in front of Az. Fell & Co. (insomuch as a car going 45kmph  _ could  _ go) and almost tripped over his feet as he stumbled out of the driver’s side door. The shop appeared to be open, if the interior lights being on were any indication, and he practically knocked the bell above the door clean off its perch when he burst through the double-doors, pastry bag in hand.

_ “ANGEL!” _

“Who?”

Crowley staggered to a halt. A man dressed in an oversized hoodie with a messy riot of dark curls and round spectacles stood in the middle of the store, balancing a precarious pile of books in his arms.

“Where’s Aziraphale? Who the Hell are  _ you  _ supposed to be?” Crowley snapped, recovering first.

The other man blinked like a camera shutter and set his pile of books down on the nearest flat surface.

“I’m Newton Pulsifer, his personal assistant,” he answered. “Who are  _ you,  _ mate?”

“I’m Crowley. I was supposed to come visit this morning, but I accidentally overslept,”

On the drive over, Crowley had decided that honesty would be the best policy in this regard (he tried not to reflect on the inherent hypocrisy of that statement, considering the fact he was planning to rob Aziraphale blind). It wasn’t out of any inborn sense of goodness, however; he simply didn’t want whatever half-baked lie he cooked up to come back and bite him in the arse.

Newt’s eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed angrily. “Ah, yes…  _ you,”  _ he said slowly. “Aziraphale was pretty upset that you didn’t show this morning. I mean, you didn’t even  _ call.” _

The redhead made an exasperated noise and swung out his arms, the pastry bag nearly knocking over a stack of books. “How the Hell am I supposed to call if I’m  _ asleep?  _ Because I  _ overslept!” _

Newt’s glare didn’t lessen, but he agreed to let Aziraphale know that Crowley was there nonetheless.

“Alright, I’ll get Mr. Fell for you,  _ sir,”  _ the bespectacled man said.

He moved further into the shop, not noticing the two-fingered salute Crowley shot at his back. A moment later, Aziraphale emerged from the back room, fussily straightening the cuffs of his jacket.

“Ah… hello, Crowley,” he said nervously. “Did you… did you need something?”

_ Show time! _

“Angel, I am  _ so sorry!”  _ the conman said pleadingly to his intended target. “I  _ know  _ I was supposed to meet you here hours ago, but I overslept! I have no excuses for it, I know, and if you don’t want to see me ever again, that’s  _ fine!  _ I just figured that… that I could at least offer you an apology…”

In truth, it was  _ not  _ fine if Aziraphale never wanted to see him again. Crowley, however, was somewhat of a gambler and was willing to hedge his bets that, if he showed up to the shop - properly penitent - then Aziraphale would most likely be willing to give him another chance.

The man in question was eyeing him somewhat warily, but he didn’t appear to be outright distrustful or even angry. 

Then, after an agonizing moment of silence, he said, “It’s alright, my dear, I understand. These things happen, after all.”

Crowley nearly collapsed from the weight of relief that dropped onto his shoulders.

_ “Thank you,”  _ he breathed, holding out his bag of pastries. “I remember from the other day at the cafe that you liked chocolate, so I stopped back by there and bought a few rolls of pain au chocolat to make amends.”

_ “Ooh!”  _ Aziraphale exclaimed delightedly. “I do enjoy a good chocolate pastry from time to time. I was just about to close the shop for lunch, so how about you and I go sit down and-”

He was interrupted by the shop’s door banging open and hitting the opposite wall with a slam that was hard enough to shake loose some dust from the rafters.

“Aziraphale! My love!” the door-slammer half-wailed.

The shopkeeper slumped against a bookshelf with a long groan. “Oh no…”

Crowley ignored the flare of jealousy in his chest at the sound of someone calling  _ his  _ target  _ their  _ love, and jerked a thumb in the direction of a slender, golden-haired man standing on the doorstep and clutching a bouquet of begonias.

“Who’s  _ this  _ guy?”

“An old ex of mine, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale replied frustratedly. He straightened up and turned his anger on the intruder. “Dennis, I’ve told you already,  _ we’re through!” _

“You can’t possibly mean that, big daddy,” Dennis declared passionately, dropping to one knee.

Crowley and Aziraphale both simultaneously cringed at the terrible nickname. The redhead was the first to recover and marched forward to grab the other man’s shirt and hoist him into standing.

“Listen here you stubborn little shit,” Crowley said sharply. “Aziraphale doesn’t  _ want  _ you anymore!”

Crowley could see it in Dennis’s eyes: he was only after Aziraphale’s money, and had no  _ real  _ intentions towards a proper relationship.

Crowley could see it because, after all, like recognizes like and he would  _ not  _ have a potential usurper coming in and mucking up his plans!

Dennis gave a wriggle and managed to squirm out of his rival’s hold. “And just who are  _ you  _ supposed to be?”

“I’ve had quite enough of this,” Aziraphale huffed. He turned towards the back of the store and shouted, “Newt, dear, we have another one!”

“I’m on it!”

Newt suddenly appeared from around the corner, brandishing a bright red cylinder. Crowley recognized it as a fire extinguisher just in time to leap out of the way as Newt sprayed it at Dennis while shouting, “Go on! Git outta here, you leech!”

Dennis yelped and covered his face, dropping his flowers and staggering backwards as Newt continued his assault. Eventually, Dennis was driven backwards out of the shop in a hail of foam and the door slammed unceremoniously behind him by a giddy Crowley who thought the entire thing to be great fun.

Aziraphale sighed again, kicking at a little puddle of foam that had drifted a bit too close to the shelves.

“Terribly sorry about Dennis. I suppose we’ll have to hold off on our visit while I mop this up…”

_“Nonsense!_ We can still have fun!” Crowley declared fishing out a piece of pain au chocolat to pass to Aziraphale, and then a second to hand to Newt. The redhead produced a third roll for himself, and held it aloft like a crystalline champagne flute. “To shitty exes, and the knights in shining armor who wield ‘Excalibur the Red and Cylindrical’ to protect us!”

While initially Crowley had disliked Newt, he now had to admit that the kid had guts and a bit of a mischievous streak that he could appreciate. He could tell that befriending Newt would be an  _ excellent  _ way of scoring extra brownie points with Aziraphale, so it would pay to get on his good side as well. Besides, if he ended up fending off anymore of the blond’s potential “suitors”, well… all the easier for Crowley to get the job done.

Aziraphale held his own pastry up. “To Sir Newton!”

Newt laughed nervously, but did so as well until there were three rolls of pain au chocolat pressed together in a pseudo-toast.

“So… you said that guy was an ex? If you don’t mind me asking, why didn’t things work out?” Crowley asked.

_ I need to know what  _ **_not_ ** _ to do. _

“Oh, well… Dennis was just…” Aziraphale began, peeling off a piece of his pastry to pop in his mouth. “...he didn’t really love me for  _ me.” _

“His loss, angel,” Crowley said, thumbing a smear of chocolate off the corner of the blond’s mouth. He licked his thumb clean with a sultry smirk. “My gain.”

Crowley took a bite of his pain au chocolat, and was about to ask if he could feed Aziraphale the rest, when a sharp pain in his abdomen had him doubling over with a cry. Aziraphale was beside him immediately, checking him over in mounting panic.

“Crowley? Crowley! What’s going on?” he began, but found himself cut off when his friend slumped to the floor.

Newt was already running to grab his phone from the counter. “Hold on! I’ll call 999!”

“Hurts…” Crowley groaned tersely, trying to sit back up. He didn’t make it fully seated before he was slipping on the extinguisher foam over the floor and landing on his side. His eyes screwed shut.

Aziraphale placed his hands on Crowley’s forehead, feeling the clamminess of his once hellfire-warm skin. “Did you eat something bad? Was it the bread?”

Crowley realized through the haze of dizziness that he  _ had  _ ingested something he shouldn’t have. “No… not the bread. Mouthwash…” he slurred as Aziraphale gently guided his feverish head down onto his lap.

_ “Mouthwash?!”  _ Aziraphale gasped, eyes blowing wide. “Just how much did you  _ drink?!” _

Crowley blinked up at Aziraphale. Sky-blue eyes were looking back at him in open worry. With the light from the ceiling lamp framed behind his head, Aziraphale looked like an angel descending to take Crowley to Heaven. The redhead was seized with the briefest bout of panic before he remembered that he wasn’t (hopefully) dying.

_ Just lying in the lap of a man I was intending to seduce and rob… no biggie… _

“It was… erm… a good mouthful or three… didn’ wanna waste time brushin’... I was late… didn’ wanna upset you…” Crowley slurred, his eyes dropping shut.

Everything stopped hurting then.


	4. Saline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wakes up in the hospital and reveals a little bit about himself.

_ Beep… Beep… Beep… _

“Hrngh…”

_ Beep… Beep… Beep… _

_ “Mmph!” _

_ Beep… Beep… Beep. _

Crowley scrunched his eyes tighter.

“Will  _ somebody  _ stop that infernal racket?” he snarled, curling his lip and trying to roll over.

Something on his arm snagged, however, and he was finally forced to open his eyes.

The first thing he saw was  _ white. _

Walls and walls of white.

Then, as his focus gradually came into - well,  _ focus!  _ \- he was able to make out individual things. Beside him was a simple wooden nightstand, upon which a vase of pink azaleas sat. He shot them a glare when he noticed a tiny leaf spot.

On his other side was an IV stand, to which he was attached via the arm he had tried to lift to turn himself. Inside was a clear fluid, dripping down into the tubing. He’d also been hooked up to a cardiac monitor - the source of the terrible beeping.

Beyond that, and the bed he was tucked up to his stomach in, the room was completely empty.

More and more awareness came trickling in then, as did the memory of how he’d ended up in the hospital.

_ Mouthwash. Of-fucking-course it had to have been something  _ **_stupid!_ **

Just as he’d begun working himself up into a right  _ snit  _ over his own foolishness, the door to his room clicked open and Aziraphale walked in, carrying a fruit cup in one hand and a juice box in the other.

“Angel?” Crowley rasped.

Aziraphale flinched and dropped both of his goodies. The juice box went bouncing merrily away, but he managed to snatch the fruit cup back out of the air before it spilled across the floor. He took in the sight of Crowley’s conscious, if slightly groggy, eyes and exhaled in relief.

“Thank goodness you’re awake. I mean, the doctor  _ said  _ you’d wake up some time today, but I wasn’t quite sure. Brought you some snacks just in case,” the blond said. He bent down and picked the juice box back up.

“How long was I out?” Crowley asked.

“Just over 24 hours,” Aziraphale replied. “Newt’s been keeping an eye on the store for me while I’ve been here with you. I have all your things, though your phone’s been receiving texts almost nonstop from someone called ‘The Lord of the Flies’,”

A spike of fear pierced Crowley’s heart clean through to the other side.

_ Oh shit! Bea! _

He’d failed to deliver the second check-in! He was  _ not  _ looking forward to being subjected to the incandescent wrath of his 5’0 “business partner”. 

Moreso, however, was the fear that Aziraphale may have seen something incriminating.

Crowley swallowed. “Did you… uh… read any of them?”

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale gasped, scandalized. He looked offended at the very  _ idea  _ that he would be accused of snooping through someone else’s phone. “They’re not  _ my  _ messages to read. I respect your privacy, and wouldn’t do anything to violate that.”

Crowley went almost completely limp with relief. “Thanks. ‘Preciate it.”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said, drawing up a chair to sit at his friend’s bedside. His smile was kind, but the bags under his eyes spoke to just how worried he’d been. For the moment, thoughts of checking in with Bea flew out of Crowley’s mind.

“Have you been with me this whole time?” the redhead asked softly.

“Of course I have. Although… I hope you don’t consider this too forward, but I was only able to be here with you by claiming to be your husband,” Aziraphale admitted. He turned a shade of red almost as deep as Crowley’s hair. The conman in turn, was momentarily taken aback. Aziraphale had  _ lied  _ to the hospital staff, all to stay by his bedside and watch over him; to take  _ care  _ of him.

At the moment of realizing this, Crowley felt like all the air had been punched from his lungs. He wanted to shake the other man by his shoulders and tell him that he wasn’t worth this  _ damnit!  _ And yet, despite it all, Crowley couldn’t help but feel a bit of a fluttering, tingling sensation in his chest.

Duty called, however.

“Why,  _ angel…  _ is this a proposal? _ ”  _ he grinned, feeling particularly cheeky. “I must admit, it’s a bit  _ fast  _ but  _ I’m  _ certainly not complaining. What say you help me out of bed and we go straight to the hospital chaplain?”

Aziraphale bit his fist to stifle his laughter. He was tempted to smack Crowley across the head. “Don’t be such a tease, my dear. It’s not a good look for you.”

Crowley gave a melodramatic sigh, his hand clutched over his heart. “Alas, woe is me! My one true love has rejected my proposal! Would that the mouthwash had killed me!”

The two of them shared a giggle that was quickly interrupted by the sound of Crowley’s phone going off.

_ Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me! _

_ For me! _

_ For meeee! _

The redhead’s face fell as he watched Aziraphale fish the phone out of his slacks and peer down at the screen.

Aziraphale passed it to him. “Seems it’s that ‘Flies’ person who’s been texting you so much.”

Crowley could see a slight tensing of the other’s shoulders, and he felt compelled to explain.

“Bea’s my cousin. They’re probably worried sick,” he fibbed, pressing the “talk” button.

Though Bea was not on speakerphone, their high-pitched shriek came through as loud as if it were.

_ “ANTHONY YOU LITTLE SHIT SO HELP ME  _ **_GOD_ ** _ YOU BETTER BE SICK OR DYING OR I  _ **_SWEAR-”_ **

“I’m in the  _ hospital,  _ Cousin Bea!” Crowley said loudly. “And  _ Aziraphale  _ is right here taking care of me!”

“Hello!” Aziraphale said, close to the phone.

Bea instantly went quiet. Then, in a voice that was sickly sweet,  _ “Aziraphale!  _ Thank you sooooo much for taking care of my  _ idiot  _ relative. What was it this time? Getting drunk and trying to parkour off a Tesco roof? Driving his car into the Thames again?”

Crowley put his phone on speaker while Aziraphale replied, “Just a bit of accidental mouthwash ingestion. His stomach’s been pumped, he’s loaded with saline, and the doctor said he should be good to return home either this evening or early tomorrow.”

“I’m glad you were there for him,” Bea said. Crowley made a sour expression, which he could easily pass off as embarrassment. In truth, it sometimes  _ unnerved  _ him with how quickly his co-conspirator could shift tone, mood, and attitude to fit the needed situation.

The irony was not lost on him as he watched Aziraphale converse with Bea as if they were old friends.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll take good care of him,” the blond said.

Bea sniffed piteously. “Thank you again for taking care of my stupid cousin. He and I are each other’s only family.”

Crowley curled his lip into a wry smile. While it was true he had no family of his own, he didn’t discount the idea that Bea had spontaneously sprung fully-formed from the molten core of Hell. Aziraphale gave him a small smile, complete with watery eyes, like he’d just found kinship.

_ Good idea, Bea,  _ Crowley thought unsarcastically. _ Little Orphan Anthony’s bound to score me some extra points. _

After a few more reassurances that he would watch over Crowley, Aziraphale ended the call with Bea. Crowley, meanwhile, could practically  _ feel  _ the questions his target wanted to ask, so he granted him mercy.

“Go on, ask away,” he said, gesturing. “I’m sure you want to know all about my ‘tragic backstory’.”

Aziraphale set his jaw stubbornly.

“Only if  _ you  _ feel comfortable answering,” he insisted.

Crowley folded his arms across his chest and looked away.

“What’s there to feel uncomfortable about?” he scoffed, eyes trained on the gritty texture of the nearest wall. “Never knew my dad. Mum kicked me out as soon as I turned eighteen saying I ‘asked too many questions about him’. Took up with Bea shortly after that and never talked to her again.”

Aziraphale covered his mouth with his hands. “Oh,  _ Crowley…” _

Crowley felt something stinging at the corners of his eyes. “That was, I think, ten years ago. She never bothered to come looking for me, so why should  _ I  _ have to go look for her? Dad didn’t either and I don’t know if he’s dead or what. Probably dead. Otherwise he’d… he’d have…”

A gentle hand came to rest atop his.

“Don’t cry…” Aziraphale said quietly.

Crowley shook his head, about to object at the notion, but when he lifted his free hand to his face, it did indeed come away wet.

_ What the  _ **_Hell?!_ ** _ I haven’t cried since…  _

“I, uh… I think the saline’s leaking out of my face,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

Aziraphale frowned slightly, then nodded towards the side of the bed opposite the IV. 

“Would it be alright if I just… held you for a bit?” he asked.

“Sure. Whatever. If you want,” Crowley said, looking at him from the corner of his eye.

Aziraphale smiled and climbed onto the slightly inclined mattress beside his friend. When Crowley made no move to scoot closer, Aziraphale tutted good-naturedly and pulled him into his arms.

The redhead’s breath abruptly ran out (for the second time since waking up) when he felt his cheek smushed against a soft chest. One of Aziraphale’s arms moved under his nape and over his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world and began rubbing a comforting line up and down whatever it could reach.

Crowley felt a rush of something like tenderness at the feel of it.

Aziraphale leaned his head down a little until his nose was buried in messy scarlet hair. “Forgive my rudeness, but your mother was a  _ fool.  _ How could anyone  _ not  _ want you around?”

Crowley gave a sound (that he would deny making until his dying breath) somewhere between a hitched sob and a tiny squeak and turned his head a little to hide his face in an ugly, duckling-yellow sweater vest.

Aziraphale, bless his soul, was kind enough to not mention the “saline” soaking into the front of it.


	5. Pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale asks Crowley if he can take care of him for the day.

Crowley’s hospital stay lasted the rest of the evening, but his discharge was cleared for early the next morning.

Even though Crowley was given a clean bill of health, Aziraphale still insisted on fussing over him as he bundled the redhead into his car.

At first, Crowley allowed his target to indulge in his more protective instincts, but he drew the line at Aziraphale trying to  _ buckle his seatbelt for him! _ He lightly smacked the other’s hands away.

“I’m  _ fine,  _ Aziraphale. It’s greatly appreciated, but I don’t need you constantly mother-hen-ing over me,” he stressed, ready to get out and  _ walk  _ home if need be.

Aziraphale sighed and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“I know. I know,” he said, fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel. “This may seem a bit… forward… but would you like to come home with me for today?”

“P-pardon?” Crowley stuttered, brow creased slightly.

“If I’m overstepping my boundaries, I apologize, but would you be comfortable with coming back to the flat I own over my shop and letting me keep an eye on you for today? You can go back home in the evening of course, or you’re free to say no and I’ll take you home now- I just- erm…”

“Why are you doing this?” Crowley interrupted.

Aziraphale released his death-grip on the wheel to worry at the hem of his shirt. “I… when the ambulance took you away I… I was really quite worried about you,” he admitted, tensing up. “I didn’t know if you were going to be okay until I got to the hospital, so… so I just want to watch over you for a bit to make myself feel better.”

Crowley stared at the man in the car with him, heat rising in his face. It was  _ insane!  _ No one had ever  _ worried  _ about him before, much less insisted they be allowed to take care of him. Crowley was supposed to be cool, suave, flirtatious, the one in control of the situation so he could mold it to suit his needs. He  _ wasn’t  _ supposed to rely on others!

However, if he confessed as much to Aziraphale, who knew how well that would go over? The last thing he needed was to reject the other man’s offer of care, and then have things be awkward between them, or worse, potentially drive them apart.

And -  _ damn him for a fool  _ \- Crowley had to admit that the idea of having this beautiful man doting on him all day did hold some kind of appeal.

Still, he felt he needed to put up  _ some  _ token of protest. Just to entice Aziraphale closer, of course, not to save face or anything like that.

“That’s… but we’ve only known each other for a few  _ days,”  _ Crowley insisted. “You trust me enough to let me into your home?”

“Last I checked, life-long friendships could be made in less time,” Aziraphale replied, leaning across the space between them to place a reassuring pat atop the other’s knee. “And you’ve never given me any reason  _ not  _ to trust you, so of  _ course  _ I do.”

Crowley could  _ feel  _ the guilt curling up and souring the empty spaces inside himself. Aziraphale only trusted him because he didn’t know the sheer depths of manipulation he was willing to go to in order to get his hands on the blond’s wealth. Crowley liked to think himself above such pathetic emotions such as shame and regret. But, here in a spotless car that smelled of vanilla, sitting across from an angelic man who’d only ever looked at him with kindness, the conman felt the first tiny ripples of contrition.

And ripples, as everyone knows, tend to  _ grow. _

“O- okay, angel,” Crowley whispered, covering the hand on his knee with his own trembling one. “If it’ll make you feel better, you can take care of me today.”

“Oh,  _ wonderful!”  _ Aziraphale chirped, taking his hand back and turning the ignition.

The car’s engine revved to life, and Crowley discovered that he actually missed the warmth of Aziraphale’s hand.

***~*~*~*~***

After returning to the shop, Aziraphale ushered Crowley up a flight of stairs to a modest flat that looked as cluttered as the workshop below.

“Welcome to my humble abode!” the blond said, gesturing at the mess of it all. The flat’s door opened directly into a small living room that had overstuffed bookshelves lining each wall, and a single monstrosity of a tartan-covered, camelback sofa that looked like it had been ripped directly out of the 1700s. A round end table stood by one of the arms, upon which was stacked various loose-leaf papers and a white mug filled with what  _ might  _ have been cocoa at one point, but now seemed to be a type of primitive lifeform unknown to science. Aziraphale swiped the mug and hid it behind his back. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable! Help yourself to any of my books, but do be careful with them! I’m sure you haven’t had the chance to eat yet, so I’ll set about preparing us some brunch.”

Before Crowley could protest that he didn’t  _ need  _ brunch, Aziraphale had already puttered away towards a doorway that must have led to the kitchen. Crowley gave a roll of his eyes, then sat down on the couch.

As soon as he did so, he discovered it was actually a  _ lot  _ more comfortable than it looked and he couldn’t stifle a groan of satisfaction as he sank into the cushions.

“Everything alright out there, dear?”

Crowley flopped sideways on the couch and shouted back, “I’m fine, angel!”

As the sounds of preparation in the kitchen picked back up, the redhead allowed himself to burrow deeper into his seat. He spotted a knit blanket over the back of it, and pulled it around his shoulders. He didn’t know  _ what  _ kind of fabric it was stitched from, only that it was soft as  _ fuck  _ and smelled like sweet pea flowers.

Crowley pulled one of the throw pillows beside him under his head and was perfectly content to spend the rest of the morning and afternoon dozing like an oversized cat. 

He’d  _ just  _ managed to begin nodding off after a while, when a shrill beeping yanked him out of semi-consciousness. He jerked upright and looked around, trying to determine the source of the  _ godawful sound  _ when he caught the bitter tang of smoke on the air.

And it was coming from the kitchen.

_ “Aziraphale!”  _ he shouted, throwing off the blanket and leaping up. 

He dashed for the blaze, but was stopped by Aziraphale who emerged looking sheepish.

“Terribly sorry for the racket, but I burnt one of the pancakes,” the blond said nervously, running a hand through his own curls.

Crowley slumped a little in genuine relief, clutching at his chest.

“For Somebody’s sake you scared the piss out of me!” he said, heart rate slowing back to a manageable level. “Thought there was a fire or something.”

Aziraphale laughed with self-depreciation.

“Just my own incompetence, I’m afraid,” he replied, gesturing back towards the kitchen. “It was just one, though, and the rest are quite serviceable. Shall I open a window and then we eat?”

Crowley shook his head affectionately. “Sure thing, angel. Lead the way.”

***~*~*~*~***

Once the entire upstairs had been thoroughly aired out, Crowley sat down at a small, creaky wooden table in the tiny room that served as both kitchen  _ and  _ dining area. As he waited for his pancake, he couldn’t help but contemplate how, despite his money, Aziraphale actually appeared to live an  _ extremely  _ spendthrift lifestyle. 

The man drove his own car (not even a sports model!), cooked his own food,  _ clearly  _ didn’t have a maid, and lived in a flat that was so cramped it could make a sardine claustrophobic. Just  _ what  _ was Aziraphale  _ doing  _ with all his money?! Was he hoarding it in an off-shore Swiss account? Investing it? Hell, was he  _ burning  _ it?! 

_ Nothing  _ about the man’s lifestyle made sense, and Crowley felt like tearing his hair out at the roots in frustration at the enigma that was Aziraphale Fell.

He was rescued from his downward spiral into insanity by the man himself placing a plate in front of him that was  _ covered  _ across its entire diameter by a slightly dark, misshapen pancake. Crowley blinked in surprise. “Smells kind of like pumpkin,” he said, jabbing at it with a fork. “Is there canned pumpkin in here?”

Aziraphale pulled out the chair across from him and sat down in it with a proud smile.

“No, actually. You can combine vanilla and cinnamon to give baked goods a pumpkin-like taste! It’s a  _ favorite  _ little trick of mine!”

“Huh…” the redhead mumbled. He poured himself a  _ generous  _ (Type 2 Diabetes-inducing, really) amount of some store-brand syrup atop his pancake, then cut off a piece. When he took a bite, his eyebrows rose.  _ “Holy Hell  _ you weren’t kidding! These are  _ incredible!” _

“I’m so glad you think so!” Aziraphale said, helping himself to the syrup bottle. With a happy sigh, he began drowning his  _ own  _ breakfast. Crowley had already demolished most of his.

“If you can cook like  _ this,  _ why are you in the book-hunting business?” he asked, gesturing at his dining companion with a sticky fork.

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow and simply tilted his plate so Crowley could see his pancake, which was so pale as to look undercooked, with the edges still somehow slightly burnt. “I’m better at making  _ books  _ look pretty, than  _ food  _ look pretty.”

Crowley paused. “Eh, fair enough,” he acknowledged with a tilt of his head.

He tucked back into the sodden remains of his pancake and then, once it was gone, asked for another. Aziraphale was happy to oblige, passing him a second; shaped like a potato but cooked to perfection.


	6. Makin' Whoopie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley spends an afternoon cuddling on the couch with Aziraphale.

After brunch, Aziraphale gently led Crowley back to the sofa. The redhead protested the  _ entire  _ way that he didn’t  _ need  _ to be escorted like a swooning Victorian maiden, but both of them saw it for the phony-baloney posturing it was;  _ especially  _ when Aziraphale bundled him up in the knit blanket and he rumbled like an oversized cat.

Crowley was left alone for a moment while Aziraphale browsed his own shelves to pick out a book. When he finally selected a sizable-looking tome, he sat down beside the lump that was his friend and began to read.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence was broken only by the occasional sniff or turning of a page. Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley watched Aziraphale. The bookbinder looked right at home amongst the kitsch and softness, with tiny round spectacles perched upon an upturned nose. Every so often his brow would furrow or he’d stick the tip of his tongue in concentration. 

It was adorable, and Crowley hated himself for thinking so. A little voice in the back of his mind was asking what it would be like to scoot closer, to press himself against Aziraphale. Would that be too fast? Would it scare him off?

Feeling resigned at being unable to cuddle the source of his curiosity, Crowley leaned his head back to where it rested on the back of the sofa. The angle was uncomfortable, and would most likely result in a crick, but he was too tired to complain. The pancakes were sitting snugly in his stomach, and the carbo-load had made him sluggish.

He blinked his eyes back open as he felt a soft hand loop around his shoulder and gently tilt him sideways.

“Come now, dear boy, that  _ can’t  _ feel pleasant on your neck. Here, lay your head in my lap,” Aziraphale chided, coaxing him down until Crowley’s cheek was pressed against a pillowy thigh and the back of his head nestled in the curve of his stomach.

Crowley, too stunned to object, allowed himself to be led there. The hand disappeared from his shoulder, and returned to thumbing through the pages of Aziraphale’s book. 

Well, Crowley’s assumptions had been correct.

Aziraphale was  _ very  _ warm.

One of the redhead’s hands, trembling with trepidation, carefully came to rest atop Aziraphale’s knee. When it wasn’t immediately swatted away, Crowley became a little bolder. His thumb rubbed up and down on the smoothe fabric of the other’s pants. In response, Aziraphale’s fingers came down to scratch at his scalp, and Crowley flinched, almost sitting entirely upright. Aziraphale yanked his hand away.

“I- I’m so sorry!” he stammered, faster than intended. Crowley could see the sadness in his eyes as he apologized. “I shan’t do it again!”

Crowley noticed the tremor in his hands. He took one, gently grasping it by the wrist and guiding it back to his hair as he returned to his previous position. He murmured softly, “It’s okay. I just… didn’t expect it. ‘S nice.”

He released his tentative hold and, at first, nothing happened. Then, Aziraphale’s fingers began a careful, soothing motion across his scalp and through his thick tresses. Crowley finally gave voice to the pleased noise that had been building up in his throat, and his target giggled in response to it. 

The two of them sat there in blissful silence for a long while, until Crowley eventually nodded off with the feel of soft hands running through his hair.

***~*~*~*~***

He must have slept for several hours because when he awoke, the late afternoon sun was shining through a dust-covered window, flooding the room with a smoky, orange glow. Aziraphale had stopped stroking his scalp, and Crowley pushed himself upright with a groan.

“Ugh… how long was I out?” he grumbled. He wet his dry lips.

Aziraphale gave a chuckle and seet his book aside. “Long enough to where I almost finished reading. But, if you want a more  _ concrete  _ answer, it’s nearly dinnertime.”

Crowley made a noise of surprise. “Damn. Guess I was more worn out than I thought,” he said pensively.

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “Indeed, though now I find myself a bit peckish,” he said. “Italian sounds  _ divine,  _ so would you prefer I order in, or do you feel well enough for a bit of an informal date?”

Crowley stretched out his limbs, popping the joints with audible cracks. Thanks to his long nap, he felt better than he had that morning upon release from the hospital.

“Going out’s fine, angel,” he said.

“Ooh! Excellent! Although, would you mind if I took a quick shower to freshen up before we go? I haven’t had a proper wash since the night before you were taken to the hospital, and I fear I might be a little… ripe,” Aziraphale grimaced, tugging at one of his own curls.

“You smell fine to me. Besides, I like ‘em a little  _ dirty,”  _ Crowley purred, looking up and down the length of him with a seductive edge to his voice.

The blond, instead of rising to the bait, simply rolled his eyes.

“Ha! Tell that to my laundry hamper,” he scoffed with a grin. Crowley reared back a fraction of an inch, stunned slightly by the lack of reaction. “You do  _ not  _ want to know what several-day-old cocoa stains smell like.” He pushed himself up off the couch. “Would you like to use the shower after me? I have some clothes you could borrow, though they might be a tad big on your frame.”

Crowley waved him off. “Nah, I’m fine,” he said. Then, he waggled his eyebrows. “Although… I would  _ not  _ be against climbing in there  _ with you.” _

_ That  _ statement garnered a reaction from Aziraphale, who flushed so red it made his platinum hair look  _ pink. _

“N-no thank you,” he stammered, hiding his face in his hands. His shoulders were tense, and Crowley began to feel bad for his teasing. Although, was it  _ really  _ teasing when he was  _ intending  _ to seduce him? “I um… you are  _ very  _ attractive, a-and I  _ want to _ but I- well-”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Crowley said, gently pulling Aziraphale’s hands away from his face so he could hold them. “If I’m going too fast, I can slow down.”

The other man’s blush died down and he gave Crowley a watery smile. He glanced down to where their hands were joined and squeezed them a little tighter.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said with a slightly sad smile this time. “I don’t think I’ve ever dated someone quite as patient as you. They were always very… insistent.”

“They didn’t… didn’t hurt you, did they?” Crowley asked.

He almost jerked away in surprise at the concern in his own words, but he managed to keep his hands entwined with Aziraphale’s. 

_ Where the fuck did  _ **_that_ ** _ come from?! _

“Not in the way you’re thinking, but the relationship never lasted long afterwards,” the blond said, bringing his friend back to the present moment.

Still somewhat shaken by the depth of worry he felt for the man before him, Crowley brought their joined hands up to kiss Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that with me, angel. We can go as slow as you need,” he whispered.

***~*~*~*~***

While Aziraphale showered in the other room, Crowley fired off an update to Bea.

Before his co-conspirator could snark back, Crowley tucked his phone away. He was perfectly content to continue sitting on the sofa while he waited for Aziraphale to get ready, until he heard something floating above the muffled sounds of the shower down the hall. At first, it sounded like random noise, until he was able to discern a pattern to it.

It was  _ humming. _

Curious, Crowley crept down the narrow hall with its slightly faded wallpaper to stand outside the bathroom door. Aziraphale was humming some tune that Crowley couldn’t place. It sounded like it had been a swing-jazz song, but slowed down to something more like a crooner’s melody.

Then, Aziraphale began to sing.

_ “Another bride, another June. _

_ Another sunny honeymoon. _

_ Another season, another reason…” _

His voice was low, sensual, with a lazy kind of drawl that Crowley couldn’t help pressing closer to the door to hear. He was surprised to find that Aziraphale knew one of Ella’s songs, but at the same time, he wasn’t. The blond man practically  _ radiated  _ “person displaced in time” energy.

_ “Picture a little love nest, _

_ Down where the roses cling. _

_ Picture the same sweet love nest. _

_ Think what a year can bring.” _

Crowley pressed his back to the wall and slid down it until he was seated on the floor. He closed his eyes to block out any sensory input that  _ wasn’t  _ the sound of Aziraphale’s singing.

_ “Another year, or maybe less. _

_ What’s this I hear? Well, you can’t confess…” _

Crowley swallowed down the feeling that was threatening to choke him. He wouldn’t call it  _ guilt,  _ per se, but it was  _ dangerously  _ close. He could practically see, behind his eyelids, the one-year deadline he had set for himself ticking away like a bomb countdown.

He listened for a bit longer, head thunking back against the wall.

_ “He says, ‘Now, Judge, suppose I fail?’” _

_ The judge says, ‘Budge right into jail.’” _

_ You’d better keep her, I think it’s cheaper…” _

He couldn’t fail in his mission. He  _ wouldn’t!  _ Aziraphale Fell was set to be his  _ greatest heist!  _ Better than simply nicking peoples’ wallets after a one-night-stand. Better than charging people for nudes he never intended to send and then tracing their card info. If he could  _ just  _ get his hands on the bookbinder’s money, he could leave it all behind and start somewhere new.

_ “You’d better keep her. _

_ I know it’s cheaper…” _

Crowley’s eyes screwed tight, and he curled in on himself. As the last words of Aziraphale’s singing faded out, Crowley thought about how he had been treated with such kindness; like someone worth trusting.

Someone worth  _ having. _

_ “You’d better keep her…” _


End file.
